Don't Let Go
by GoGirl212
Summary: The battlefield turns friendship into brotherhood for two musketeers. An entry into the November Fetes de Mousquetaires competition with the theme Gratitude.


_A/N: The battlefield turns friendship into brotherhood for two musketeers. An entry into the November Fetes de Mousquetaires competition with the theme Gratitude. My gratitude as always to Issai for her careful and considerate beta skills. I don't own any of this except the mistakes . . ._

* * *

" _At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us."_

\- Albert Schweitzer

" _In the end, though, maybe we must all give up trying to pay back the people in this world who sustain our lives. In the end, maybe it's wiser to surrender before the miraculous scope of human generosity and to just keep saying thank you, forever and sincerely, for as long as we have voices."_ _  
_― Elizabeth Gilbert, _Eat, Pray, Love_

* * *

"Aramis!"

Athos paused, main gauche raised above his head, and looked for the source of the despairing cry. Porthos was to his left, the only man standing among a pile of half a dozen bodies, looking up at the ruined _chateau_ and calling desperately for their third. Athos felt his chest tighten and he couldn't breathe. Time stopped, the battlefield quieted, and all he could register was the thumping of his own heart trying to beat back the paralyzing fear that the unthinkable had happened.

Perceiving that the situation had turned to his advantage, the man kneeling in Athos's grasp twisted and tried to bring up his dagger for a strike to Athos's abdomen. The movement was like a spring on a clockworks, suddenly setting everything in motion again as instinct and training took hold again. Athos readjusted his grip on the man before him and hauled him to his feet. The last thing the man did before his soul left the earth was whimper as he looked the very devil in the eye.

Athos pulled his main gauche from the chest of the dead man and was moving to retrieve his dropped sword before the body hit the ground. He scrabbled over the rubble and made his way the short distance to Porthos, barely registering the two men he cut down on his way. Porthos had a hand up over his eyes to shade the sun and was scanning the structure presumably looking for their friend as he shouted his name into the din.

Athos scrabbled to his friend's side and pulled him down behind the remains of the garden wall just as a volley of musket fire rained down on them. Porthos looked to spring up again but Athos's firm grip and steel blue eyes were enough to keep him rooted.

"Where is he?" Athos's voice was flat of emotion but full of the authority that he had been bred too. It was part of what made him a natural leader.

"Second floor," Porthos's response was close to a growl, "He was up there with Colbert and two of the lads from camp to reload the weapons."

Confident Porthos would now stay put, Athos let his eyes fly up to the broken structure, still smoking from the recent hit from the cannon that their enemey was not supposed to have had. It should have been a fast skirmish with the musketeer troop flushing out a ragged group of Huguenots on the run from La Rochelle. Instead, there had been a cannon and a second group to reinforce the ones they were attacking. Athos had been the one to order the marksman to find a perch and keep shooting – but that was the plan before the cannon had shown up. The lack of gunfire coming from the structure now told Athos that either Aramis and the others had fled the ruins for better position, or they were in trouble. There was only one option as far as Athos was concerned and from Porthos's reaction to the hit, it seemed they were in agreement.

"Let's move," he said, not waiting for a reply. The two men were up and running toward the crumbling structure, taking a zigzagging path to avoid musket fire and pausing only when an enemy directly confronted them. It looked like there was still a lot of fight left in the Huguenots, but they also caught sight of others fleeing back into the woods behind the ruined _chateau._ Just as they reached the doorway, another direct hit to the structure thundered above them, raining down more debris. They covered their heads as they sheltered in the doorway, fear again grabbing hold of Athos and tightening like a belt around his chest. It seemed the canon had finally found its range and was ensuring the covering fire had been obliterated.

"Aramis!" Porthos's cry was loud and ragged as he pushed into the decimated structure. Not much was left of the second floor that should have been above them. Rubble, splintered beams and smoldering piles of debris were all that was left behind the hollowed out front façade. Athos was a beat behind, adding his voice to Porthos's as he called his friend's name and desperately searched the rubble for any sign of Aramis.

"Here!" Porthos called out, as he started digging through a pile of stone and wood near the end of the house by the chimney that was miraculously still standing. Athos scrambled over the debris as quickly as he could, ignoring the scrapes and cuts to his hands and legs as he pushed to his friend's side.

Porthos's face was grim as he worked at moving the remains of the ceiling and staircase. Athos looked at where he was working and caught sight of the lower portion of a booted leg protruding from the rubble. Porthos was frantic in moving the debris, shouting for Aramis in a horse and choking voice. Athos bit his lip, fighting back a swell of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him completely. No one was going to be alive under there. No one.

Athos froze. Too many thoughts clamored in his head. Too much death wrapped closely around his heart. He had barely survived the loss of his brother, had only survived it even now because of the two men by his side. Porthos was his comfort, but Aramis was his salvation. As Porthos uncovered more of the body, Athos felt something inside his heart shift, tighten, whither. When Thomas had been killed there had been searing pain and rage. Looking at the crumpled body at his feet, Athos felt such sorrow as to hollow out his very heart.

Porthos had stopped working and was breathing heavily at his side. Athos looked to him, saw the tear tracks marring his dusty cheeks, the compulsive swallow as he tried to choke back a sob. He wasn't returning Athos's gaze, his eyes fixed instead on the ground before him. Athos realized that now, after all of the work to shift the debris, Porthos could not bring himself to move any further. Athos forced his gaze to follow Porthos's and felt his breath catch in his throat.

That could not be a man, their beloved friend, broken on the ground before them. He was like a rag doll, carelessly dropped by a child, covered in dust and blood. The brown curly hair was matted with blood and something oozed out from the unnatural depression at the back of his skull. Arms and legs at impossible angles told of multiple broken bones. But the absolute stillness was heart wrenching.

He couldn't pull his eyes from the sight, but somewhere deep inside himself, Athos heard his father's voice. His unrelenting training about leadership, authority, and responsibility sparked like a candle in Athos's mind. It didn't matter what he felt right now, he had responsibilities. To the man dead before him and to the living one next to him. It was not much in the face of the empty space his heart had become, but it was enough to get him to move. He put a hand to Porthos's shoulder and another to his arm and gently moved him aside.

"Here, my friend," he said, in a voice so still it didn't even sound like his own, "you have done your part. Let me do this." Porthos shifted to look at Athos, brown eyes full of sorrow. He nodded, clearly too overcome to speak and shifted places with Athos. He put a hand to Athos's shoulder and Athos felt some strength return to his limbs through the support of that large, warm hand. He crouched down and with the tenderness one might show a sleeping child, slipped his arms under his precious friend and rolled him onto his back. Athos's breath hitched as he looked down at the broken face.

"It's Colbert," Athos barely got the words out, "It's Colbert." The relief of not seeing his friend's face staggered him and he fell back to sit clumsily in the dirt. A pang of guilt grabbed his gut as he thought of Colbert, a good soldier, a loyal musketeer, as deserving of life as Aramis was. It was wrong, but he couldn't grieve. Colbert deserved better than him at his side. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, trying to steady the trembling and control his conflicting emotions. The hollowness in his chest began to fill with an agonizing warmth, the fire of hope warring with his despair. Giving in to empty loss was more familiar to Athos, shutting down was easier. He'd done it for years until Porthos and Aramis had dragged him out of the bottom of a bottle. Aramis with his indomitable spirit, his lust for life, his recklessness, his joy, his forgiveness. A sob forced itself from Athos's throat, then tears came, not born of sorrow, but of overwhelming gratitude that it was not Aramis lying ruined at his feet.

Athos felt Porthos's hands under his arm and let himself be pulled back up to his feet. Porthos stood behind him and Athos all but sagged against him, leaning back into his chest as Porthos snaked an arm around him and held him tight. They stood close, drawing strength from the other as they steadied their breathing and released their grief.

After a moment, Athos felt he had his feet under him again, his emotions in check. Hope gave birth to determination. He released his grasp on Porthos's arm and gave him a reassuring pat. Porthos let him go, and when Athos turned to face him, he found defiance in Porthos's gaze. It seemed he was not ready to give up either.

"So where is that lunatic?" Athos said between clenched teeth.

* * *

His own breathing woke him up. It was a hollow sound, echoing in his chest and around his ears. It was all Aramis could focus on at first – the shuddering in and out rattling his chest and vibrating through his body. His breath was ragged and uneven, no internal rhythm to keep him grounded. Aramis pried open his eyes to only darkness. His head throbbed and his mind was fuzzy as he tried to make sense of where he was. Head curled into his chest, his shoulder blades pressing against something hard, his knees pulled close and his legs trapped above his head. One arm was cradled across his torso, the other was reaching down to nothing – nothing was below him.

Aramis felt panic swell in his chest and his breathing became shallow and rapid. He tried to move the arm on his chest and stopped instantly as fiery pain pierced through his very bones. With his other hand he managed to feel the stone wall behind him, but could gain no purchase to help right himself. His movements caused the uneven stone behind him to cut into his upper back, he naturally pulled away from the pain and something in his position shifted. He slipped downwards, his back sliding along the stone, but his legs still stuck above his head. Despite the pain, he forced his shoulders back into the wall. It stopped his downward motion even as the jagged edges of the rough-hewn stone cut into his flesh. His head rolled back against the rock and his eyes found light far above him. He figured it out as full consciousness and memory finally came flooding back.

He was inside the chimney.

 _Breathe, breathe, breathe_ he told himself. He was safe for now, not moving, not slipping, but if he passed out from hyperventilating his shoulders could shift again and nothing would prevent him from falling. _Breathe._ He steadied himself. Remembered his father, teaching him to shoot, telling him that everything started with the breath. _Steady in, steady out. Build a quiet rhythm_. He found his rhythm, it was second nature to him now, so once he touched it, he could hold on to it. He slipped into that breath and felt the panic clear from his mind. _Singular focus_ his father had told him. To shoot a weapon, everything must fall away from the mind in order for you to aim. Finding his focus, Aramis started by figuring out what he had to work with.

His position felt relatively stable, he wasn't sliding anymore, but his legs were elevated above him and his shoulders were even with, if not slightly below his hips. That part wasn't good. If he slipped down much further, he would have no way to press into the wall and he'd fall, head first. Even a short drop would be fatal if he landed on his head or neck.

Climbing back up would seem the obvious choice, but the pain still radiating from his right arm suggested it was broken, or at least the shoulder dislocated. With one arm trapped below him and the other useless, climbing up was not an option. His legs seemed relatively whole, and while his back hurt from the rocks, he still was wearing his leathers. That would reduce at least some of the damage. He pushed his back firmly against the wall and pushed his feet against the opposite one. Feeling firmly locked into place, he started to shimmy his back up higher, ignoring the scraping and bumping from the rocks. He worked at this for as long as he could getting his shoulders pushed up a little higher and more of his back pressed into the side of the chimney.

Finally, he stopped, panting from the effort, sweat now beading on his forehead. He was as upright as he was going to be. If he straightened out much more, he might start to drop again. The fireplace was only partially intact and there was every possibility that he would fall into something that would be fatal whether he landed on his feet or not. He considered trying to inch himself downward in the same manner he had moved up, alternating feet and shoulders he should be able to make it to the bottom. But there was a good chance that the chimney got wider as it got closer to the ground, so a fall of some kind would be inevitable.

As he was considering the risks, a second explosion rocked the dilapidated structure. Aramis squeezed his eyes closed and tucked his head down as bits of stone, wood and dust rained down on him and the entire structure shook. Something, a chunk of stone, fell from above and landed on his arm and chest, causing a blinding flare of pain that almost drove him to unconsciousness again. Sheer willpower was all that kept him from blacking out and he forced all of his energy into keeping his body locked in its curled position, back and legs pressing desperately into the walls. Time seemed to slip from his grasp and he didn't know how long he held his rigid position until eventually the dust settled.

He was exhausted now and caked in dust that stuck to his sweaty skin. He inhaled and breathed in dust and debris, causing him to cough and choke. He worked to steady his breathing again, to draw breath through his nose and exhale through his mouth. His heart was racing and his tongue felt thick in his throat. He was well and truly stuck and for the first time he considered he might not get out of this alive.

Facing death was part of being a soldier, it was familiar territory, but soldiers weren't supposed to die like this. He was ready to fight to his last breath and to die defending king and countryman. But to sit and wait for the inevitable, unable to help himself or for his death to mean anything – to die alone without even his comrades beside him when he fell? Aramis choked back a cry as fear and sorrow rose up from his heart like a wave crashing on the shore. He knew this feeling. Despair and utter loneliness in the frigid fields of Savoy had left scars on his heart that still ached two years later. He did not fear death, but he could not bear the thought of waiting for it alone.

As if his thoughts were prayers, someone called his name. It was muffled and hard to pick out around the sounds of his ragged breathing echoing in his ears, but he was certain it was his name. Athos and Porthos. A smile tugged at his lips in spite of himself. In the middle of a pitched battle leave it to those two to somehow know he was in trouble. It sounded again, and he was sure now it was Porthos's deep bellow he heard. They had to be close. Desperate to call their attention, Aramis tried to give off a whistle, but his mouth was bone dry and caked with dirt and dust. He was having difficulty catching his breath now, the cramped position and the dusty air conspiring to keep him from properly inhaling. He called out to them, but the sound was thin and weak and he doubted they could hear it above the din of the battle. He tried again but knew it was little more than a harsh whisper.

He slipped again, his back bumping down the side of the chimney until he could find the strength to press again into the wall. His stomach and leg muscles were cramping now, his back ached from the stones and from the weight on his shoulder blades. The situation was as absurd as it was impossible.

 _They are going to kill me, if I die here,_ Aramis thought. Then he just couldn't help it, he started to laugh at the irony of it all – the odds of someone in the middle of a battle falling into a chimney were improbable at best, let alone being stuck in this ridiculous position, the only thing saving him from death was that he seemed to have the unlikely good fortune of falling in bottom end first. With his miserable luck Aramis was surprised it wasn't raining as well.

Again he heard his name and again he tried to call out, to answer what he knew must be a desperate plea, butstill there was not enough air for him to make a proper noise. He slipped again down the wall, and again he pressed back to hold his position. It was a battle of increments, but it was one he was inevitably going to lose. With no way to signal his friends, he could only hold on to the quiet sound of their voices. The fact that they were so near, that they were alive and searching for him, finally quelled the panic that had been tightening his chest. He was not going to die alone. They had promised him that after Savoy and here they were, true to their word. They were here with him in this lonely place. He felt a wave of sadness, knowing the sorrow his loss would put them through but after that, a surge of warmth filled his body. He didn't need to be saved, he just needed to know that they were there. A calmness filling his mind, he offered up a prayer of gratitude that he would die with the love of these men most surely wrapped around his heart.

* * *

"Maybe he got out," Porthos said, his voice laced with frustration and worry. They had been combing through debris and calling for their friend for nearly ten minutes with no sign anyone else had been in the _chateau_.

"No," Athos's flat voice spoke to the depth of his emotion, "There is no way he would have left Colbert here alone. He's here," Athos surveyed the rubble around them and felt despair crawling back into his heart, "Heaven help him, but Aramis is here somewhere."

Athos was bending to shift another beam that might have provided a sheltered place below the debris when a flutter of motion caught his eye. He squinted in the fading light and realized something was moving at the other end of the house.

"Porthos," Athos called quietly and tipped his head toward the direction of the massive stone hearth that still stood partially intact. They grew quiet as they approached, the sound of men shouting and intermittent pistol fire encroaching into their consciousness since they had first entered the ruined building. The battle still was not finished.

A massive iron chandelier, adorned with deer antlers, had fallen in front of the hearth, bringing down large pieces of the front of the structure with it. The chandelier blocked access to the fireplace behind it but there, laying on the ashes atop the fire grate, was Aramis's hat, the feather on the brim fluttering in the breeze from the open flue.

Athos exchanged a look with Porthos, seeing the same hope and fear warring in his eyes that he knew must be shining in his own.

"Aramis!" Porthos bellowed and they both paused, waiting breathlessly for a response. There was no shout in return but . . .

"Is that laughing?" Athos asked, not trusting his ears at the surprising and soft sound.

Porthos cocked his head, then slowly started to shake it, a smile cracking across his broad face, "That crazy, foolish bastard is up there laughing at us," Porthos couldn't help but start laughing himself and Athos found his friend's smile contagious. Relief spread through his body and he felt as if he could breathe freely again.

"Aramis!" Porthos called out again, but still there was no answer and the soft laughing died away. Exchanging concerned looks, they tried to move the chandelier but it was wedged below a massive oak beam and they would need horses to clear it out. Athos picked his way through the spaces between the branches of the candelabra and managed to get about half of his body into the opening of the fireplace. He looked up and something was definitely lodged in the chimney, only a sliver of daylight making its way down past the obstruction.

"Aramis!" Athos shouted and this time, finally, was rewarded with a response.

"Athos," Aramis's voice was rasping and breathy, barely above a whisper, but the relief was evident nonetheless, "Took you long enough."

"What are you doing up there?" Athos felt himself smiling despite the situation.

"Oh, waiting for you," came the soft but cheeky answer.

"Can you climb down if I clear away the debris?" Athos asked.

"I'm sorry," Aramis replied, and despite the attempt to keep the tone light Athos could now hear the pain lacing his friend's voice, "but I seem to have broken my arm. And I'm wedged in here like a musket ball in a gun barrel."

"Hold on," Athos said with as much reassurance as he could manage, "We can't get to you from here. We'll come down from the top. Just hang on." Athos waited for an answer but heard only soft coughing and the wheezing sound of labored breathing. It seemed Aramis was worse off than just a broken arm.

"He's wedged in there," Athos reported to Porthos as he clamored out from the fireplace. "Broken arm. We are going to have to get above him somehow." They both looked up, assessing options. Part of the second floor was still intact above their heads, at least about three feet of floorboards jutting out over a broken beam that was anchored into the bottom portion of the wall still standing near the fireplace. But there didn't seem an obvious way up.

"From the outside," Porthos supplied the answer, "We can climb up the side of the chimney and get around to the opening that way. I'll find some rope, we can haul him out of that hole."

They emerged from the façade of the chateau to find the rest of the regiment securing the prisoners they had taken in the skirmish. Porthos called down to two of their comrades and one ran up, bearing two lengths of rope. Hoping they would be long enough, the men started their way carefully up the chimney, grateful to find the structure more solid beneath them than they had anticipated after the mortar fire. Unfortunately, the remnant of the floor was less solid. It creaked beneath their weight as they shifted into position to look down into the chimney.

The top of the chimney that had extended up and through the roof had crumbled, leaving a round gap like the opening of a well. The inside was rough-hewn rock, coated in thick black soot. Enough sunlight was left for them to make out what they thought were legs and the top of Aramis's head lodged about 8 feet below them.

"You're going to have to climb down," Porthos said, "not enough space for me to get in there and lift him out. But if you can get a rope around him, I can pull him up."

"How do I get in there?" Athos asked, palms already beginning to sweat. The mere idea of willingly climbing into that narrow, dark opening was enough to start him panicking.

"See there," Porthos said, pointing about a foot below them, "see that iron spike? There is a series of them running down both sides, it's what the chimney sweeps use to clean the flue."

"How do you know this?" Athos asked as he fastened one of the ropes around his own waist and started pulling on his gloves over shaky hands.

"More than one way than the front door to get into a house you want to rob," Porthos replied, his grim smile offering no warmth. His worry for Aramis was evident despite his outward calm. They both were worried. But now that there was a plan, they would take comfort in it, believe in it and believe that it would all work out. Because really, there was no other choice. Athos would have to go into that hole.

"What can we tie off to?" Athos said, looking around on their small perch. Porthos searched too, then got down on his stomach, leaning over the edge of the floor boards.

"Make a loop and a slip knot," he told Athos, and held his hand up for the rope. Athos did as he was asked and passed the loop down to Porthos. Leaning forward, Porthos gave the rope a little toss and hooked it over the support beam protruding from below the flooring. He gave a tug and the rope tightened.

"Well that's effective," Athos said dryly, "as long as the beam doesn't come down."

"If that beam comes down," Porthos replied, "the rope not holding will be the least of our worries."

Porthos took the other length of rope and tied it around his own waist, then offered the other end to Athos. "Get this around him." They were putting all of their faith into Porthos's strength and Athos's agility but they were odds they had played before. With a quick thump to Porthos's shoulder, Athos scrambled into the hole, reaching with his leg to find the first foothold, while Porthos took up the slack in his rope.

* * *

"Aramis" his name sounded from somewhere above him, echoing around the insides of the chimney.

"Here," he replied weakly, "I'm here."

"I'm almost there," Athos answered, "Just try not to move."

He'd been doing that for a while, Aramis considered, so complying was not difficult. His legs and shoulders were starting to tremble now with the effort to keep from slipping. Speaking with Athos earlier had renewed his hope and his energy, but now, after waiting alone for how much more time he could not tell, he knew he was almost finished.

Something brushed his leg and then the last of the sunlight was blocked out completely. It seemed Athos had found him. A hand tentatively reached out and found his knee, and then followed it down over the top of his thigh. Aramis was too relieved to even make a risqué comment but a long sigh escaped his lips at the comfort from Athos's touch. Overwhelmed at the contact, Aramis felt his eyes fill with tears. Was there nothing this man would not do for him?

"Ok, I found the bottom half," Athos said, his dry, matter-of-fact assessment pulling a smile from Aramis's lips, "Where is the rest of you?"

"A little lower," Aramis breathed out, wondering how much closer his brother could get. He felt something jostle his left side, and then his right, and despite the almost complete blackness he realized Athos was somehow, impossibly, straddling him.

"What are you doing?" Aramis asked, fear of being dislodged swelling in the pit of his stomach.

"It's alright," Athos was reassuring, there are footholds on either side of you." Aramis could feel Athos legs brush against his ribs and felt more than saw him crouching over him.

"Athos," Aramis was fighting panic, "What are you doing? You're going to fall," he pleaded again.

"Easy friend, easy," Athos soothed, "I'm tied off. I'm not going to fall." Athos reached down and found Aramis's head, his gloved hand sliding over to clasp the side of Aramis's face, "You are not going to fall either. Just trust me." Aramis let out a shaky exhale but nodded into Athos's hand. Trust him like he had done a thousand times before. Just trust him.

He felt Athos's hand work his way down over his shoulder and onto his arm, and Aramis couldn't help but let out a cry of pain.

"Ahhh, stop, it's broken," he whimpered as Athos moved his grip back up to his shoulder.

"Oi," came a bellow from above, "Everything alright?"

"We're alright," Athos called back up. "Just figuring out the best way to do this."

"You have gotten yourself in a real bind this time, friend," Athos's voice was soft and closer to his ear. One hand resting reassuringly on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," was all Aramis could choke out. His heart was thumping now, so hard he was surprised Athos couldn't hear it. He felt Athos tighten his grip on his shoulder, offering comfort and reassurance. Then Athos's other hand was feeling along his other shoulder.

"How are you doing that?" Aramis asked, the unnerving feeling of Athos impossibly hovering above him making him question if he was truly in his right mind.

"I'm balanced on my feet, and my head is pressed into the side of the chimney for stability," Athos answered, "I'm perfectly secure." Aramis wondered how Athos was managing to hold that position considering how the rough rocks were torture now on his abused back.

"Porthos, take up the slack on my line and be ready to take both of our weight" Athos called up.

"I'm here," Porthos called back.

"Aramis," Athos said softly, pulling him from his morbid thoughts, "You are going to have to get that arm over my shoulder and it's going to hurt like hell. Can you do it?"

Aramis swallowed thickly, not afraid of the pain that would come from moving the arm, but terrified of what would come next.

"Yes," he breathed, "What then?"

"I'm going to lift you up toward me and you get that other arm around my neck and then just hang on and we'll get out together."

Aramis felt his breathing quicken and fought to stay calm, "Athos, I don't . . . that's not a good idea . . ."

"Aramis," Athos's voice seemed distant, "Aramis . . . _brother_ ," He felt Athos grip him under his good shoulder and his other hand wrapped gently around the wrist of his injured arm, "I promise, I will not let you fall. Trust me."

Aramis couldn't answer, his chest was heaving in shallow breaths and he was having trouble getting air. Suddenly his shoulders started to slip and he cried out as he scrambled to gain purchase with his legs. Then his broken arm was tugged upwards and the violent surge of pain caused him let out a gut-wrenching howl. His legs slipped free of the wall and stretched out to nothing below him even as he felt his chest pulled up and pressed against something softer than the inside of the chimney. Reflexively, he flung his other arm up trying to find something to hold onto and managed to get it around Athos's neck. They dangled together at the end of the rope, twisting slightly in the confined space of the chimney, the only thing keeping them from falling was the strength of Porthos holding up the dead weight of two men.

Then Athos shifted and must have regained his footholds as they stopped swaying.

"I've got you," Athos breathed into his ear, "just hold on to me and be still" and Aramis tightened his grip with his good arm and resisted the urge to keep kicking his feet."

"I'm going to slide my arms down and loop this rope through the back of your belt. Just hold on to me." Aramis couldn't answer but nodded his head against the cheek pressed against his. He again forced himself not to panic when he felt Athos's grip shift to his sides, but then one hand was quickly wrapped around his belt, and he could feel Athos pass the rope through with the other. He did two wraps and then threaded the rope through and pulled up. Athos kept his arms under Aramis's shoulders as he tied off a knot between his shoulder blades.

"Porthos!" Athos tipped his head up to call up to the big man at the top, "take up the slack on Aramis's rope" They waited there a moment, and then Aramis felt a tug at the back of this belt. He let a relieved sigh slip from his lips, but he didn't loosen his grip on Athos.

"Alright my friend, we have you," Aramis could hear the relief in Athos's voice, "Let's get out of here."

"Porthos!" Athos called out, "Take him up."

Aramis felt the rope tug again and suddenly he was lifted upward and almost pulled out of Athos's arms.

"No, no, no!" he cried out, "Don't let go. Don't let go." The words came out of Aramis in a rush and he scrambled to readjust his grip. He felt the tug on the rope stop and Athos shifted below him to rise up another step along the iron pins, giving Aramis a secure grip around his neck again.

"What's wrong?" Porthos's worried voice rang down the chimney.

"We have to move a little slower," Athos was calm, no sign of indignation or reproach in his voice, "Aramis is going to climb with me, can you take up the slack on his line as we move?"

"Yes." The answer came down, "Nice 'n easy. I got ya.."

"Here," Athos said as he shifted his shoulder under Aramis's good arm. "Now slip your other arm between us, we'll keep it from hitting the wall." Aramis winced as he let his left arm slip from Athos's shoulder, but pressed it against his chest, doing his best to keep it secure for their ascent.

"Here we go," Athos said and he used his free arm to grab the pinon above his head and pull up, while he stepped to the next one with his left foot. Braced on top of Athos's shoulder, Aramis felt his body shift upwards while Porthos pulled up the slack on the rope, taking the majority of his weight. Aramis pressed his feet to the side of the well, taking some of his own weight on his own legs to help them climb. Aramis didn't think about the strain it was putting on Porthos to take him up so slowly, nor did he consider the risk to Athos that he might lose his grip as he made the ascent up the chimney with Aramis awkwardly draped over his shoulder. He just knew he needed both of them to not let go.

Aramis lost all sense of time and could not have said if the climb to the top took minutes or hours, but suddenly there were strong hands underneath his arms and he was pulled out of the chimney and into the waning daylight light with the abruptness of a child being pulled from the womb. He was on the ground, leaning back against Porthos, his friend's arms wrapped across his chest. Porthos's chest was heaving from the exertion of pulling him up and he could feel the sweat on the man's face as his check pressed into the side of his head, but Aramis didn't care. He leaned back into the comfort of his friend and tried to steady his own rapid breathing. Then two arms appeared out of the top of the chimney and Athos hauled himself out of the hole and rolled onto his back panting, legs still dangling into the opening. Aramis reached out with his good arm and found Athos's shoulder and gripped it tightly, only to have Athos snake a hand up to grip his in return.

"How did you find me," Aramis voice was a raspy croak.

Athos dropped his hand from Aramis's and rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself up to his knees. "We found your damned hat in the fireplace," Athos gave him a slight smile as he reached for the water skin. "I've never been so happy to see that thing in all of my life."

Athos shifted closer to Aramis and helped him drink. The cool water was a relief, washing the dust and dirt from his mouth and bringing moisture back into his throat. Aramis leaned his head back against Porthos's shoulder, squinting his eyes open toward Athos as he passed the water skin to Porthos.

"You look like hell," he said to Athos. Athos's face and clothes were smeared with black soot. The man raised an eyebrow, making a silent comment on what must have been Aramis's even more sorry appearance.

"Not surprising considering what you dragged me into," was the cool response.

"Where's my hat now," Aramis asked, aware of the playfulness creeping into his voice.

"Still down there," Athos answered, his blue eyes shining, "want me to send you back to get it?"

* * *

The regiment made camp at the base of the hill, the _chateau_ rising up behind them in the bright moonlight. Athos sat outside the tent he shared with his two companions, looking at the façade of the ruined building and considering the impossible circumstances of the day.

They had almost lost Aramis. In the most stupid and ridiculous way imaginable. It was laughable, in fact they had all laughed at some point that afternoon, and yet it was sobering. To think of how close they had come to letting that bright light leave this world was hard for Athos to bear. But harder for him was the realization of how much he cared for this man. Their friendship had started only two years ago, when Aramis was still recovering from his injuries at Savoy and Athos was in retreat from himself after losing his brother, his wife, his home, in the most tragic of circumstances. Both battered, they had somehow found within each other something they each needed.

Porthos had been the one to drag him home from the tavern, but Aramis had chosen to sit up with him to care for his hurts and comfort his despair. Aramis who had lost so many around him, now found in Athos the solace of tending to a brother in need – and for some reason, Athos allowed himself to be ministered to, to be soothed, to be healed. Aramis had to find someone to save in order to save himself and Athos had let himself be saved before he could help anybody else. No wonder they found each other. No wonder they were friends.

But today, in that blasted chimney while he was soaked in sweat and soot and fighting back his own terror in order to save Aramis from his, something had changed. Of course Athos was scared of falling himself, but in that moment when he reached for his panicked friend he realized he was more terrified of losing Aramis than he was of losing his own life. A sense of calm descended on him in that well, a sense of purpose that he had not had in many years. It was not, as his friends often accused him, that Athos found his life worth little, but that Aramis's survival was worth so much more. In asking Aramis to trust him, he had to have faith in his own heart that he would not falter, that he would not let his friend – his brother – fall.

And there it was. Brother. That is what Aramis had come to mean to him. Not exactly in the same way as Thomas, who he had cared for and watched over, but in a very similar way where they cared for and watched over each other. Each man the better for being in the care of the other. Athos looked up at the moon shining brightly over the ruins, the chimney standing tall enough to be pointing a long finger up into the expanse of the night. Athos wasn't prone to religion or even necessarily the idea of anything existing beyond what he could see, hear and feel but tonight he had something to tell the moon.

"Thank you," he said, his eyes shining in the pure white light, "Thank you."

And that was enough of that. Athos stood and stretched, ran a hand through his hair, and moved back into his tent to check on his sleeping brother.


End file.
